


I don't (want to) feel it

by RickishMorty



Series: Do You Feel It Serie [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26928862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickishMorty/pseuds/RickishMorty
Summary: The second part of the slowburn fanfic Do You Feel It?Morty is away from Rick and by his will, for the first time in his life. The new mechanisms triggered in their relationship will have to clash with The Citadel first than with themselves.
Relationships: Evil Morty/Evil Rick (Rick and Morty), Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: Do You Feel It Serie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964845
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	I don't (want to) feel it

**Author's Note:**

> If you are looking for angst, welcome. Otherwise, goodbye.
> 
> Sorry it took a long time and welcome back. I missed you, I missed this story, I missed Rick and Morty. I really hope to find you again

Rick was used to physical pain. That shot was almost like a mosquito bite. Or at least, just for the fact that he was fucking angry. Anger (and fear) made him blind and furious at the pain, causing him to walk on his injured leg as if it was perfectly healthy.

Foaming in his mouth, gritted teeth and a mad scream coming from his throath, Rick dragged himself out of the room, sowing blood down the hall. He looked like a cyborg, like that leg was a piece of his that could easily be replaced, and that didn't bother him.

That little piece of shit had shot him.

He had fucking shot him.

He had screwed his portalgun and left him there, like a jerk.

Morty had softened him, it was evident now. Rick, old Rick, would never have been so easily fooled by that little runt.

_A little runt that was about to kill himself in front of you._

Rick yelled louder, furious: being crippled and without portalgun was unbearably frustrating. He wasn't used to feeling so helpless.

Rick scrambled up the railing of the stairs, like an animal looking for an escape route to kill another.

He turned on the garage light with his fist, smashing the switch, looking everywhere for that damned tablet, praying he didn't leave it in his room: he had no idea who was in the house, but an argument with Jerry was the last thing he wanted at that time.

He had to find Morty. He had to find him, take him to safety, bring him home.

And then beat him to death.

Rick threw some ampoules on the floor, finally finding it: luckily it was there, on the work table. He had to hurry, is time was finishing: inside their dimension they were shielded, in a recalculation that was restarted continuously, changing the name and number to their own dimension every ten minutes. But outside, Morty was still C137, shielded and easily recognizable. He had to get him home before anyone got suspicious and found him.

On the monitor, the interactive interface represented by a digital reproduction of Morty defined the parameters: agitated, high sweating, rapid heartbeat. No suspicious concentration of blood on the lower belly, of course: he certainly wasn't masturbating at the time.

Rick pressed hard on the location settings, while with the other hand he took an anti-gravity gun, grunting as the beam probed his leg, weeding the bullet from his flesh.

He would make him regret being born. He would make him stop wanting to run away from him forever. He would keep him by his side forever.

After a brief loading that seemed endless, the tablet returned information that Rick hadn't expected: "Individual not traceable. Signal not reachable ".

Rick, for the first moment since Morty left, stopped. Again, he wasn't used to being helpless. He stood staring at the screen, blinking silently, as if taking a moment to understand, taking a moment to NOT KNOW.

How was it possible that Morty was not traceable?

That he had removed the device was out of the question: it was anchored to his spine and there was no way he could remove it independently, if not perhaps by becoming a paraplegic.

Could they have found him?

Rick stared at the screen, seeing those accelerated beats: slowly they were calming down, always remaining on alert, but returning to almost normal rhythm.

… At least, he seemed to be fine. At least he could still see his vital signs.

Rick took a deep breath, biting his lip and beginning to see his vision cloud: he had lost a lot of blood. And not only that.

He took a lace from the table, tying it around his thigh with little attention, automatically, as he thought of what to do.

Too much time was passing, and Morty was too exposed. They were among the two most wanted in the galaxy and the boy was an easily accessible snack from the Federation, bounty hunters, the Citadel.

Rick swallowed, counting the seconds that separated him from a difficult decision, from which there was no return: each Morty had a tracking device. Any Morty who had a Rick, of course. He could remotely destroy the GPS, deactivating it permanently: he would have made him an ordinary Morty, one of those without a Rick or one whose Rick had given up, abandoning him.

He couldn't find him either. But, at least, no one else could. It would no longer be C137, the rough.

This would buy him time to find him.

Rick bit his lip to blood, with his head grinding at insane speed, in an attempt to find other solutions, other possibilities: there were, but they were slow. It took time. And Morty continued to be out there, who knows where in the universe, prey to unscrupulous killers who would do anything to earn a lot of money, or even just to get revenge on Rick.

He regretted having so many enemies.

He regretted being such an asshole and infamous.

He regretted letting him escape.

It was his fault that Morty was out there.

With a static calm, Rick stretched his tapered finger across the monitor, entering the settings and permanently disabling the tracking device.

Maybe that was his punishment: he would find Morty, only if he really knew him. Only if he had guessed where he had gone.

Rick saw the red no-signal dot slowly disappear, feeling dying inside. He had given up _control_ in an attempt to protect him.

However, he didn’t know that, in the darkness of a room, illuminated only by a screen, someone else was also tracing thousands of faces and individuals, in true control of an entire city, of every room, of every house, of every club.

He didn’t know that someone had found him the instant before the signal disappeared, coming from the Creepy Morty.

The President smiled: a beautiful and rare smile, lost forever in the darkness of that room and that no one could enjoy. If he hadn't been alone, after all, he wouldn't have allowed himself to do it.

The game had begun, but only one king knew it.

For a sightseeing tour, it was quite unusual and ambiguous. It reminded him a little of the ride he had done in Anatomy Park, but it was even more hallucinating, albeit unlikely.

"The dorms are hidden in the back, away from the bedrooms and private sitting areas: everyone likes sleeping, right?"

The dancer winked at him again, as he took Morty around the Creepy, showing him the places that were there for all to see, and those that were dedicated only to "them".

“Then there are the showers, of course, and the bathrooms, divided into those for customers and those for the staff. In public toilets you will always find lubricant: there are those who like to do it only there rather than in bed. Obviously, for that you have to fill in a questionnaire: Mortys who have the common experience of Jelly Bean and have not overcome it psychologically, will be exempt".

Morty turned shocked to the dancer, continuing to follow him, but pausing for a second: how the fuck could he talk so lightly about that rape attempt, as if nothing had happened? Was that experience really so common to everyone? Had all the Ricks killed Jelly Bean, after realizing what had happened? Suddenly, Rick's actions, _his_ Rick's, began to lose meaning.

But above all, how could he speak so freely… about all this? Sex. Sex with their grandparents. Indeed, prostitution with their grandparents. How could it be so normal and since when had this happened?

Morty was silent, unsure how to act. Why had he gone to the Creepy Morty? Of all the places, this was one of the most dangerous: primarily because it was in the Citadel, and then… well, for obvious reasons. Why did he keep coming back there?

In fact, one of the reasons was also that the Citadel's was one of the few dimensions and coordinates he knew by heart that he could put so quickly into the portalgun. Going in a random size, blindly, could have been even worse.

He wasn't even sure the dancer recognized him, but he was almost sure not. Why should he? He had no particular mark that distinguished him from the others.

The lapdancer turned to him, with a satisfied smile and his hands behind his back, in an ironic attentiveness.

"The tour is over, we hope you enjoyed yourself and no one abused you," he chuckled, in a grotesque humor that Morty figured he had to get used to. Yes, but for how long?

What was that runaway? How long would it last?

Rick would surely come for him; or would he come back? Morty had no intention of running away from his family ...

Now that he thought about it, the fact that Rick wasn't already there kicking his ass to get him back home was absurd. It was taking too long. Could he have really delayed him so long by shooting him in the leg and stealing his portalgun?

He was sure Rick knew exactly where he was: it was useless to keep thinking that a control freak like him hadn't put a tracking device on him, as if he was a cellphone or any car.

...

So why didn't he come?

 _What's up?_ _Do you already miss your executioner?_

No.

Never.

He hated him. He hated him more than he had ever hated any other thing or person. He would run away from him forever if necessary.

... But why hadn't he come to get him?

"Hey? Newbie, are you there? " the dancer snapped his fingers in front of him, awakening him from his thoughts "Too much information all at once?"

Morty blinked, quickly thinking what to say - he had no intention of staying there, but where else could he go now? He had to figure out which dimension to move before traveling blindly.

"Oh, n-no, I-I was l-listening, it's j-just ... a-a lot to digest."

Although he was bluffing, he wasn't telling a lie: he really had a lot to swallow and think about. It had all happened too fast and the memories kept stirring in his head, along with Rick's words, about the gun he had aimed at himself.

Suddenly, he remembered the words of the dancer, who had said to him the previous time.

_"There are Ricks and Mortys who live together and... well, they are in a relationship"_

_"Why?"_

_"Because they fell in love"._

Immediately, Rick's words came upon him, as violent as a punch in the face.

_"What did you think it was, a relationship?"_

Morty's heart clenched again, painful.

_"You are just the last, dirtiest fantasy"._

His eyes began to sting, cruel.

_"The last perversion to satisfy"._

Morty was too busy with his thoughts to notice the gaze of the other that slowly softened, apprehensive, opening into a sweet and understanding smile, while he put a hand on his shoulder, in a small squeeze of comfort.

"Hey... There is nothing you shouldn't share if you don't feel like doing it. Everyone here tells his story whenever they wants ”.

Morty looked up, finding a safe oasi in that smile he never found in Rick, in his mother, not even in his sister and father. Who else could understand us better than ourselves, after all?

And even in that, Morty felt terribly hurt and exposed: did the Mortys’ stories really all look alike? Were they and the Ricks really all the same, for better or for worse? Was there nothing exclusive, personal, intimate, special and different? Was he the same as thousands of Mortys and Rick as thousands of Ricks?

The fear he had since the first time they went to the Citadel and met that Rick with the scar and that strange Morty with the blindfold returned more present than ever: all the same, all infinitely replacable.

He found in his mind the memory of himself burying himself, alone. His dead self, forever, touched by his hands, alive and warm.

_"The Rickest Rick and the Mortiest Morty"_

Yet another Rick’s lie. The one he had given to both of them, even to himself.

Morty covered his mouth, a retch that reached his lips, burning his throat unexpectedly.

The dancer also took his other shoulder with the other hand, trying to find his eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey! Calm down, Morty! Don’t worry, you won't have to do anything you don't want! Unfortunately, there are always _employees_ here, so you won't have to do anything unless you feel ready ”.

Ready?

Were there those who felt ready?

"You can serve at the tables," the dancer said, with an open and reassuring smile, as Morty looked at him now crying, broken and terrified, bursting into sobs after everything that had happened with Rick. The memories, the screams, his words, the shot, the portal.

“You are safe here. Every Morty is safe here. We watch each other's backs”, he said, stroking his hair like a frightened animal, to allow him to acclimate to a new place.

Both, very close, could have closed in an hug, but failed for various reasons: Morty didn’t want to give any precise meaning to that place which was only a stop; the dancer no longer remembered how to do it.

Morty's sobs quieted slowly as he wiped his cheeks and eyes with the backs of his hands. The dancer cleared his throat, walking away a little and giving him small pats on his arms, as an embarrassed and uncertain encouragement. He turned uncomfortably, leading Morty down the corridor in the latter part of the tour.

“Well, I show you the dorms, there are still some free beds, many of our lapdancers have gone to reinforce the ranks of Miami Rick's Yellow Cove, so you won't have any space problems. Here the shifts go from- "

"D-do they ever c-come to take _them_ back?"

The question came out on its own, spontaneous and urgent. Nearly, Morty didn't say _take us back_. But he didn't want to assimilate with any of them. Rick's arrogance in considering himself different finally began to flow in him too: it was the only thing that could make sense of all this.

The dancer turned, trying to read between the lines. It was clear what he meant and what he was thinking: his Rick hadn't come to get him.

"The Ricks?"

Morty nodded after a moment, swallowing, ashamed of the need to know why Rick wasn't there. Did the Ricks give a shit about them? Did they ever come back or did they prefer to get a new Morty, unceremoniously?

"If they can find you, sometimes."

Morty frowned questioningly. What? He would never believe that the Ricks hadn't put some sort of detector device inside them. It wasn't like Rick. Ricks.

“Here the detection devices are obscured”.

Morty opened his eyes wide, taken aback: obscured? So Rick couldn’t find him?

The awareness reassured and frightened him at the same time.

The dancer shrugged, as if it were obvious: "Do you think you're the only one who has a Rick to escape from?"

Only one? No, this word no longer made sense.

"I told you. Here we are safe ”.

The garage was a total wreck, full of broken glass and tools on the ground, still in the dark. The holographic planetarium was active, filling the room with planets, stars and galaxies in which Rick raged around, as if he didn't even see them.

"Where the fuck is..."

He spoke to himself, frenzied, foaming in his mouth for the anger. The leg seemed to have totally recovered: he didn’t limp, nor was there a trace of blood. Rick was accumulating a series of accessories on the table: weapons, Meeseeks boxes, devices of dubious use, backpacks, chips; there was everything. The spaceship was active and appeared to be doing a self-checkup, scanning, self-cleaning, and reloading of weapons.

Rick was preparing to leave.

He had no idea how long the expedition would take, or where he was supposed to go, or how long he was supposed to search. The only reason he disabled the tracking device, other than the obvious danger, was that he trusted Morty enough to believe him capable of staying alive for at least two days.

Trust.

Fuck.

Never again, he would never make the same mistake again.

He would have kept him in a cage all his life if necessary.

Rick looked up, finally focused on those holographic planets revolving around him. Watching them was disturbing and tremendously annoying: how could he concentrate on keeping Morty in a cage, if his image appeared to him with his cock in his mouth?

...

Well, the two things could work together.

Rick growled, slapping himself to concentrate, remaining fixed on the planets without remembering that night with his grandson who threatened to make him hard at the least appropriate moment. How could anyone get excited in such a situation?

Rick began to touch various planets, moving the star map with his expert fingers, rotating it and bringing other galaxies closer to him, also changing dimensions as he touched moons, planets, asteroids.

He was cataloging and selecting all of Morty's favorite places; those who had impressed him the most, surprised, fascinated, made him smile. Gave him fuck, excited him. Not the ones Rick liked, who always ended up giving him a panic attack or making him burst into tears.

Rick stood in the middle of the room, the voice of the spaceship speaking for him, gentle but distant.

"Cataloging completed. We are ready to go, Rick ”.

The scientist didn’ move, stopped after the terrible storm that had shaken him at that moment.

He didn't expect to remember so much about Morty. He didn't think he remembered all those planets, those preferences, those smiles.

...

He was a piece of shit.

Rick Sanchez was a piece of shit.

"Grandpa..."

Summer's voice caught him from behind as the light came on and the planets disappeared. The girl was on the stairs, looking at the mess the garage poured into, worried and blown away by that chaos.

"... What the hell happened?"

Rick heard her come down the stairs, without turning, careless.

He went to the table, starting to sort all the accumulated objects, while a mechanical arm of the spaceship reached him, starting to cram them inside itself.

"Where are you going?" Summer walked over, frowning at all those weapons in front of Rick, not having the faintest idea what most of the objects were.

Rick continued to pretend she wasn't there, before the question they both expected and feared came.

"Where is Morty?"

Rick walked away, loading a large backpack that looked almost like a jet pack, effortlessly dumping it into the spacecraft. He heard Summer's footsteps following him, pedantic and hasty.

"Hey! Fuck, grandpa, do you hear me? Where the hell is Morty?! "

"Try looking for him on your Instagram, Summer, and stop fucking follow _meeeurgh_."

Summer lifted a corner of her mouth as Rick continued to circle around her loading stuff, pretending she didn't exist.

"What fucking answer is that ?! Where’s my brother? "

Rick grabbed a large shotgun, pressing a button to minimize it, shoving it directly into his pocket. Right there, where the portalgun used to be. He had to pray Morty hadn't changed dimensions, or that would triple the search. He had to pray that he hadn't chosen a random place in the rush...

"RICK!"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK HE’S!" Rick exploded, finally turning to her, who widened her eyes, terrified by the answer she expected but didn't want to receive.

"I’M GOING TO LOOK FOR HIM AND YOU’RE IN MY FUCKING WAY".

Summer stared after him, indignant at how Rick was talking to her, but finally composing the pieces of why the garage was in that state. Why Rick was like that.

Immediately, guilt began to devour her.

It had been her. Morty must have gone to the memory room. Something must have happened.

Her brother had never run away that she knew.

The intelligence of the girl, similar to that of her grandfather, composed the pieces of that situation which was only her fault. Who was she to decide what was best to remember? What if Rick hid them to protect him? Not to drive him crazy?

She swallowed, fighting against herself: no, she didn't have to defend Rick. This was her umpteenth attempt to see her grandfather for what he was not: heroic, generous, protective.

Rick wasn't like that.

And if Morty had run away, he must have been right.

Again, she risked choosing Rick over her brother.

“Spaceship, situation”.

"It's all ready, Rick."

Rick climbed aboard, kicking out a few bottles of alcohol stuck under the seat. He slammed the door, hearing another slam as well: he turned, frowning to see his granddaughter sitting in the seat of the passenger fastening her seat belt.

"S-Summer, what the fuck are you doing-"

"I come with you".

Rick nearly exploded with a laugh, smiling hysterically and shaking his head, leaning over as he opened the door.

“Not an option. Get the fuck out ".

Summer slammed the door shut, staring defiantly into his eyes. Rick had bloodshot eyes: that bitch was wasting his precious time. Since when had his grandchildren stopped fearing him?

He had softened.

That was the truth.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out".

"He's my brother" Summer looked into his eyes, without moving an inch: she had taken her stubbornness and arrogance from her mother. So from him.

"I have more right than you to want to look for him."

An insane jealousy made its way inside Rick, nonsense. The rights he earned on Morty had reached morbid and unimaginable levels for some time. Even such a sentence could annoy him.

The two remained silent, in a silent challenge, both on guard: Rick to attack, Summer smart enough to know she could defend herself. She knew how to choose her enemies.

An instant before Rick threw her out of the spaceship, Summer clenched her jaw, in an expression that the scientist couldn't quite understand.

"Please".

Summer seemed to have the same fault in her eyes: that of always taking Morty for granted, of never having protected him, but of having exhausted him until... until...

That was the moment when Rick felt a very rare moment of empathy, in a shared guilt that made him feel similar to his granddaughter again, for the umpteenth time.

Who was he to deny her wanting to make amends, wanting to atone? He knew that Summer would still find a way to follow him, eventually having to make him look for her too, lost in the cosmos.

Rick caught his nose between two fingers, sighing wearily, before starting the spaceship in what was a tacit assent that made his granddaughter smile, incredulous.

Yes. He had softened.

"I think I've explained everything to you, Newbie."

The dancer turned to him, placing clean towels on the bed, along with several yellow shirts all the same and the same size.

“By the way, can I call you anything else or do you prefer Morty? Or Newbie?" he said with a wink as Morty stood dazed in the center of the room, looking around in confusion.

"Just to avoid confusion, if you need something from me and you don't want them to turn around in ten, my name is Mortadel" he said, holding out his hand in the first official greeting, without knowing that in reality it was not the first time they met.

"Or at least, so I decided," he smiled.

Morty finally took his hand, biting his lip as he introduced himself, uncertain.

"M-Morty..." he said suddenly, without thinking too much. Why did he have to be someone different, just because their grandparents had made sure they knew a thousand other versions of themselves?

"M-Morty i-is o-okay..."

Mortadel shook his hand, nodding thoughtfully, before resuming his usual smile and patting him on the shoulder.

“Tomorrow we start at noon. I left you a menu on your nightstand so you can memorize it. Both cocktails and… activities ”.

The dancer shrugged, before walking away to leave the room: “Our shift begins now, you rest. Tomorrow I'll introduce you to the others ”.

"Wait!"

Mortadel turned, arching an eyebrow with one hand on his hip as Morty rubbed his shirt, unsure what to say. An intense and sudden desire to tell the truth, to let off steam, to reveal who Rick was and what he had done to discuss it with one of his equals, with someone who could understand, almost made him give in.

He took a deep breath, before restraining himself from that river of words that begged him to go out, desperate.

No.

This was just a way station.

That boy was nobody but his identical copy.

No more bonds.

"Thank you" that was the only word that came out of his lips. It was sincere after all, it was real.

Mortadel blinked, before smiling as the only answer. He turned off the light, leaving Morty there, sure he would never be able to fall asleep.

He collapsed after ten minutes, exhausted, sad and with even more questions than when he first walked into the Creepy Morty.

How would things have turned out if Rick had never brought him there?

Mortadel ran his fingers through his hair, slightly messing them up, as he pulled his shirt down, letting it uncover his shoulder. He pulled up his terribly tight pants, holding his breath as he closed the last button before starting the shift.

That little boy had managed to snatch a real, tender smile from him: he was used to all those lost chicks coming to the Creepy Morty looking for a place to stay, but he hadn't been so moved for a long time. Perhaps because generally they arrived more destroyed, already ruined, lost.

Perhaps he still saw something in him that could be saved. A light that hadn't gone out yet, as it had happened to him.

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away and sighing heavily so as not to get involved.

Enough, he wasn't a fucking Red Cross nurse and there was no one to save.

Nobody.

They need to save themselves, otherwise nothing.

Mortadel went to the counter, with the other Mortys already starting to take their seats on the armchairs, the loveseats, the lap dance poles. He wanted to indulge in a Grasshopper cocktail before a long night, though. He didn't lack clients either.

He threw himself on the revolving stool, rotating it as the bartender Morty watched him cleaning a glass, with a slight tension that was difficult to read in his eyes and that broke his habitual indifference.

"What are you offering me tonight, honey?" Mortadel said, placing a leg on the table and stroking his thigh, with a lustful and ironic wink directed at his colleague, who continued to wipe the glass without giving him satisfaction.

Mortadel pretended to be terribly offended, leaning over the counter, his butt protruding impudently towards the room and already beginning to distract the first two patrons who had entered the door.

“Moty, don't you love me anymore?!? Not even time for a last goodbye shot?" Mortadel placed the back of his hand on his forehead, pretending to faint on the counter, as the bartender slammed his glass on it and leaned towards him.

"Stop being an idiot, we have a problem".

"Oh my God, don't tell me it's my hips."

The bartender approached again, looking around cautiously, before whispering in his ear.

"It’s him".

Mortadel frowned, not understanding what the hell he was talking about: he looked around the room, trying to understand if some inconvenient client had arrived, perhaps particularly violent and problematic. Maybe that Rick with the scar.

“His device was masked, like the other times. Then they deactivated it”.

Slowly, Mortadel realized who he was talking about. His eyes widened, realizing who was the shy and frightened Newbie he had talked to until five minutes ago.

“It’s him".

C-137.


End file.
